


Nighttime Revelations

by HeyitsWesley_13



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst, Hopeful Ending, How many times can I type ‘drengr’?, Injured!Eivor, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Subtle Pining, The answer: Too Many, i am In Love with Randvi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:47:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27841003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyitsWesley_13/pseuds/HeyitsWesley_13
Summary: “It is here, on her husband’s bed, with the flickering of a flame to her side the only thing illuminating her lover’s face, that Randvi falls in love with Eivor all over again.”
Relationships: Eivor/Randvi (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 252





	1. Randvi

**Author's Note:**

> Norse lesbians for the win.

**The** shout comes from Tove, panting as she struggles to get the words out, sweeping in through the longhouse like a hurricane sweeps over land. Randvi, as always, is stood by the table of which sits the allegiance map, all-but covered with black ravens detailing the continuing victories the vikings have made during their long settling in England months ago. Upon hearing Tove enter the room, Randvi’s head shoots up, her tired eyes blinking rapidly in surprise. “Tove, what-“ she starts, but is interrupted by the loud exclamation and, despite the deep breaths, Randvi catches on to what is being said, her brows furrowing:

“Randvi! Eivor— she— returned and— injured— it’s… bad.”

Blue eyes widen as Randvi processes what she is hearing, before her heart lurches and her body compels her forward in haste. She stumbles across the room, her thoughts spinning, muddled and unclear if only for the resounding _Eivor, Eivor, Eivor,_ circulating in her head. It is only when she makes it outside and into the brisk evening’s air does Randvi notice Tove by her side, mouth opened and moving but with no words seemingly coming out. The redhead shakes herself out of her reverie, willing her ears to focus lest she let her panic consume her entirely.

“… Have to stay calm. She’s still awake but her speech is jumbled, her words a mess. She asked for you especially. Just— just get to her quickly.”

With a curt nod in Tove’s direction, Randvi makes for the docks, her pulse quickening with each step closer to the water. She needs to see Eivor for herself, needs to check her over, to see if she was okay or if her injuries were truly as bad as Tove led her to believe. It was not possible, in Randvi’s mind, for Eivor to be in any other state than battle-worn and weary, tired and weakened but not badly hurt. It was only supposed to be another standard raid, after all- something the warrior had plenty of experience with. And in any case, a hopeful part of her was expecting the blonde-haired drengr to be mostly herself still, awake and _alive,_ waiting for her with that same fire in her eyes that greeted Randvi ever since they’d met not three winters ago. 

What Randvi does not anticipate as she nears the shipyard, is the sight of the Wolf-Kissed laying on the ground, head resting on the lap of a nervous Bragi, her ocean-eyes twitching with effort to remain open, a large and very open gash across her chest and her mouth involuntarily opening and shutting with every gasping breath.  
The same crowd that usually gathers to happily welcome the viking raider and her crew from long voyages away now stands silently around the dock, hushed and worried, but Randvi does not take much notice. Her attention is only on Eivor.

“ _Gods_ ”, she gasps, her knees finding purchase on the solid wood of the dock, to the right of her friend’s body. Outstretching both arms, Randvi shakes her head as she takes in the sight before her. The gash, now up-close, is deep and oozing, blood steadily trickling from the wound. It extends from Eivor’s hip to the underside of her breast, cutting through the bottom of the fabric covering her modesty by an inch. Under any other circumstance, the sight of Eivor’s bare chest and stomach would bring a deep flush to Randvi’s cheeks, but she cannot let herself be distracted this time. Instead, she presses her left palm gently on Eivor’s forehead, feeling the clammy beginnings of a fever. Eivor mumbles something, too quiet for Randvi to hear even within the deep silence. She leans forward, tenderly resting her right hand on Eivor’s leg, looking for signs of discomfort at the added pressure on the blonde’s lower body. But there is no indication Eivor even _feels_ Randvi’s hand, and that alone causes her greater concern.

Turning towards Bragi, Randvi asks: “what has caused this injury? An axe of some kind? Tell me what happened and do so hurriedly. We need to move her and treat the wound before infection takes hold.” To her own shock, her voice does not waiver once, but the worry must be evident in her eyes anyway, for Bragi’s reply is instantaneous.

“Aye, it was an axe, my Lady. Cut clean through her armour, so it did. Happened far too quickly for me to notice every detail, but Birna”- he gestures to the right with his head, where a bloodied Birna is watching- “saw everything. Told me Eivor was too preoccupied with one guard that she didn’t see the other one take a swing before it was too late. She also…” 

A pause. Randvi wets her lips, not daring to speak, and nods to Bragi as if to say _continue._ He goes on: “... she also told me the axe appeared to glint green as it swung through the air. Green like-“

“Poison.” Dread settles deep within Randvi’s gut as the word spills from her mouth. _Gods, no._ She closes her eyes, wills her heart to keep beating rhythmically within her shell-shocked chest, and takes in a deep breath through her nose. She would not let the clan see her resolve crumble. Steeling herself once more, Randvi opens her eyes, a fierce determination burning through her body as she prepares herself to give orders. She would not be losing her prized drengr today or any other, and certainly not like this. 

“Alright. So it’s poison. We are equipped to deal with it, however dire the situation looks to be right now. Bragi”- she levels her gaze at the man crouched opposite herself and beside Eivor’s trembling form- “I will need you to lift Eivor to carry her to the longhouse. Where is”- her gaze searches around until she sees- “Gunnar. You will help Bragi, please. We must make sure we are careful. Moving her too abruptly would only quicken the poison’s spread, and as it is, she already cannot feel her legs.”  
Gunnar nods his assent and takes a step, bending his knee and leaning forward to nudge Bragi and murmur his suggestions on how to better move and lift Eivor’s body from the ground.  


Randvi’s eyes return once more to Eivor’s face, her vision flitting across the Wolf-Kissed’s features in a frenzy, before she nods resolutely to herself and moves to stand, turning to face the crowd and ask for their departure from the scene. Slowly and with much humming, the clan begins to disperse, until it is only Randvi, Gunnar and Bragi left to tend to Eivor’s weakening state. Within what appears to be a fraction of a second, Eivor is lifted from the flooring, with not even a groan to alert the others to the pain she is in. The dread that had settled within Randvi’s body rises to her throat until she can taste bile, but she swallows it down and begins to march towards the longhouse, the men and her dear friend in tow.  
It feels like hours have passed before they all make it to the open expanse of the longhouse, Bragi and Gunnar stopping only a moment to ask Randvi where they were to place Eivor down.

“Yes, uh. My bedroom, please”, Randvi begins, biting at her bottom lip and worrying it between her teeth. “I would like to be able to attend to her needs as closely as possible.”

She points towards her bedroom with a sigh, the weight of her words beginning to take effect. She knows how it would appear to the others residing within Ravensthorpe, to have her husband’s adoptive sister lodging with her, sharing the same space, the same bed, whilst he himself was away. But Randvi also knows she wants to be there for Eivor to properly care for her, to tend to her wound and to keep a watchful eye on the warrior just in case her condition worsens. Her heart did not do matters like her head, and so Randvi rolls her shoulders once, working the muscle and resolving herself to the matter at hand. Gossipers be damned; she knows she is making the right decision.

**Night** creeps in and with it comes only the hooting of owls and the crying of wolves, the village eerily devoid of noise and its usual chatter. 

Randvi sits in the chair facing her and Sigurd’s bed, wordlessly watching the slow rise and fall of Eivor’s swollen chest, the lone candle that she placed on the bedside table wavering as if it, too, was breathing unsteadily. Perhaps two hours had passed since her drengr friend was brought onto Raventhorpse’s dock, and within that time, Randvi had made a visit to the seer’s hut for crushed healing herbs and returned to Eivor’s side to administer the cold, sticky salve over the blonde’s wound. She was methodical in her movements, unwilling to be anything but professional in the company of her half naked crush- though it was far from an easy feat. At the feeling of calloused hands across her body, Eivor stirred, a small whimper escaping her lips and making Randvi’s stomach churn with apprehension. Sure, it was a positive sign that the Wolf-Kissed could feel pain, for it meant she was still alive and her body was fighting the budding infection and subsequent fever- but it unsettled Randvi all the same, knowing that even with all the help she was providing, it would ultimately be up to the drengr to fully recover. Even so, Randvi had a glimmer of hope. After all, she had seen Eivor recover from worse ordeals, had she not?  


The odd peace that had settled in the bedroom allows Randvi’s thoughts of her friend to rest at the forefront of her mind and linger, a sharp change to the more usual banished echoes of _she is Sigurd’s sister_ and _I cannot feel the things I do when I am with her_ that reverberates in her head now almost constantly but is always muffled by a more prominent feeling of duty and obligation to the clan. Randvi brings both hands up to her face, rubbing at her eyes. She knew she felt something for Eivor, wrong as it was, but it hadn’t registered just how strongly those feelings she harboured had made themselves a home within the flesh of her heart until Tove had burst through into the allegiance room, that disheartening cry turning Randvi’s stomach and head and darkening her vision. This moment of reflection only serves to squeeze the beating muscle confined to the cavity of her chest, the steady _thump, thump, thump_ adding with it flares of pain. And the mere thought of losing Eivor, of never seeing her face light up in joy again, never hearing her breathe her name with such fondness again- the jarl’s wife drops her hands to her lap with a thud, gazing upon the body on the bed as her heart seizes and relaxes, seizes and relaxes again.  


_Oh,_ she wonders to herself a few _ba-dums_ later, a small stifled inhalation and the widening of her sleep-deprived eyes accompanying the realisation.

_Oh, I am in love with her._

Another hour or so must pass, of stewing in her thoughts of _love,_ of _adoration,_ of _Eivor,_ before the blonde’s breathing changes, alerting a now-exhausted Randvi so much so that she leaps from her chair, coming to lay her forearms on the bed beside Eivor’s resting body and lowering her knees to the floor. Randvi can feel her muscles ache with the desire to simply reach out and softly stroke Eivor’s cheek as she awakens, especially now that she has put a name to her previously-unnamed and unresolved feelings, but she does not dare move. Her eyes are focused intently on that of her closed friend’s, waiting for her to rouse fully and wake, and not another second passes before she is awarded for her patience. 

After what could only be considered a truly harrowing and stress-inducing happenstance, Randvi cautiously watches as Eivor’s eyelids finally flutter open, blue eyes glazed over with fatigue. It takes another moment before they begin to clear with recognition at her surroundings, but when the sheen dissolves, Eivor turns her head one way and then the other, her lips set firmly the only proof of her pain as she tries to move. She pauses when she spots Randvi, her brows crinkling as if to ask _going on?,_ and the expression on her face is so soft and childlike that it makes Randvi want to squeal with glee.  
Eivor opens her mouth to speak, eyebrows still furrowed, but Randvi interjects with a finger to her lips, surprising herself.

“I”, the redhead begins, before shaking her head quickly as a shrill laugh bubbles from within her chest. She closes her eyes for but a brief moment, and when she opens them she can _feel_ them practically shine with the love she has for this woman. 

“I thought you were going to _die_ , Eivor,” Randvi speaks, the pain in her voice becoming physical and scratching. Licking her lips once and clearing her throat, Randvi continues, her voice quieter now, more somber, and with the same level of pain, “I— I saw you laying on that dock and for half a second I thought Odin himself had already welcomed you with open arms.” 

A sharp sob and Eivor’s raspy breathing is all that can be heard in between Randvi’s shaken admission, and yet still she carries on, her voice rising in intonation with each word:

“Gods, Eivor, I just. I saw you there on the ground and you weren’t moving much at _all_ and I thought the _worst_. I really— I really just thought, for even a _moment_ , that you-“

“Hej, now, hush”, Eivor pleads, her voice rough and gravelly and her throat dry. She lifts her right hand, gritting her teeth in a show of bravado it seems, and grasps at Randvi’s arm, taking hold of the hand that is still pressed against her mouth and placing a feather-light kiss atop it. Randvi shares a watery smile as Eivor continues.

“It was not my time to be taken. I apologise for causing you any upset, my dear Randvi, but I am fine, most likely thanks to you. My wound will heal and scar and I will be fit to pillage and raid once again within the month. Please do not worry yourself over me. Besides”, she carries on, now turning to look ahead and muster some lightheartedness, “it will take more than a poisoned axe to knock me to my feet and send me to Odín’s hall.”

A beat. And then another, and the deafening silence appears to worry Eivor so much that she turns her head back around to face Randvi, as if to see if she was even _there._

Randvi remains beside Eivor and her eyes remain wet but she can sense the sudden bewilderment and fury she feels is beginning to make itself obvious, if Eivor’s startled expression is anything to go by. The blonde, face normally so stoic and passive, looks like a deer trapped in the crosshairs of a hunter’s bow, ready to dart out of the way of an arrow, and Randvi catches herself briefly thinking it’s _adorable_ before Eivor’s words come back to snap at her ears and she remembers her place.

As it is, Randvi scoffs into the quiet, clenching her left fist and sharply inhaling just to spit:

“Of course I will worry myself over you, _idiot_ drengr. You are a skilled warrior in battle, sure, but you can be careless and thoughtless and impulsive when you want to be, and today it nearly cost you your life. You shall have to excuse me for being concerned for my _friend._ I assure you, it will not happen again.”

Randvi snatches her hand away from Eivor’s agape mouth, rising to her feet despite her head willing her to _stay, stay with her, please,_ and turns away sharply, but does not make an effort to move when, as if by magic, she hears the words she were just thinking being uttered into the space around her. Her head whips back to face Eivor, as if in a trance, and she is greeted to the sight of a forlorn woman, deep set frown in place and hands clasped together loosely in front of her. All fight leaves Randvi’s body in a single _whoosh_ of air as she takes Eivor in. Her face, her eyes- a question lurking within their depths. It isn’t all it takes for Randvi to succumb to what she had been feeling for months now.

“... I’m sorry, Randvi”, and then so sweetly it makes her warm, “stay with me, please.”

But that is. 

Shoulders dropping in acceptance, or perhaps defeat, Randvi strides purposefully towards the bed, before cupping her warriors tear-stained- _when had Eivor begun to cry?_ \- cheeks and leaning in to swallow the surprised gasp that meets her mouth.  
The kiss is forceful and bruising and nothing like what Randvi had ever imagined it would be, not when routinely confronted with all the softness of Eivor’s blue eyes and slackened wonderment adorning her face whenever she looked at her. Randvi closes her eyes for a fraction of a second to allow herself the luxury of _feeling_ warm lips against hers, hot breaths mingling, before reality crashes back down and all she feels is coldness from the abrupt tear of Eivor’s mouth from her own.

Randvi opens her eyes to meet Eivor’s, her hands still holding Eivor’s face, though more delicately. Blue meets still-glassy blue, ice meets ice, and it’s not for the first time that Randvi thinks her drengr’s eyes are both lovely and juxtaposing, as blue as the ocean but with a heat to them that rivals any flame.  
Both women stay facing eachother, the only sound in the room their harsh breaths. Eivor is the first to speak, deep voice cracking:

“Randvi, what was _that?_ ”

Sheepishness overcomes Randvi as she withdraws her hands and sits down on the bed, narrowly avoiding sitting on Eivor’s legs. _She_ knows what ‘that’ was- but all attempts of explaining herself appear to vanish in her mind, her quick breathing and moment of silent pride and jubilation dimming as what she has just _done_ hits her with full-force. She looks down at her hands, anxiously wringing them, only darting her eyes upwards to mumble “it was a kiss”.

A loud, pleasant guffaw cracks the tension clouding the bedroom, and Randvi snaps her head up, confusion marring her features as she meets with Eivor’s grimace, the only proof that Randvi had _heard_ laughter shown in the slight uptick of the corner of the blonde’s mouth. It seems that Eivor’s outburst has reminded her of the fact that she is in bed, _injured,_ but despite Randvi’s worry, she wants to know what caused the split-second peal. 

Steadying herself, Eivor bites her lip, and Randvi’s eyes, through no volition of their own, follow the movement. Randvi’s cheeks have long been flushed, first with anger but now with wanting, and the sight of Eivor’s teeth nibbling away only serve to stoke the flames of her need. She can feel her face warm further and ponders if it must match her hair, but nevertheless tries her very best to focus on the next words that leave the viking’s mouth.

“I know it was a kiss, Randvi.” A pause, a short chuckle. “Even in this state, disoriented as I am, I am not disillusioned to it being anything but; however, I would like to know _why_ you kissed me. If only to serve my curiosity.” Eivor, once leaning against the solid wooden headboard of her brother’s- _her brother’s_ \- bed, slowly repositions herself as she speaks, so that she is now sat up, back against green pillows, her stomach still bare save for the salve that spreads across the length of her gash, glinting under the candlelight and hardening with each passing minute it tightens the split skin. Her face still shows remnants of her surprise, but it was the tender and longing gaze that pierced Randvi’s heart and soul. She was evidently waiting for her answer. 

If she were any wiser, Randvi would blame the boldness of her actions on the mead she had been consuming throughout the hours, awaiting her friend’s return to the land of the living, the land of the awakened. A form of drengr’s courage, as it were, quelling the knots of anxiety and restlessness as it found solace in her stomach. Yes, she would blame the sickly alcohol for her state, would blame the drained flagon currently resting on the table beside the bed for her ill-manners.  
But Randvi was not willing to be so wise. Not this time. Not now.

The redhead, face still aflame, tilts her head to the side, a rush of _something_ stirring in her gut and spreading as she teases Eivor in an attempt to stomp down the recurring thoughts of _Gods, I really do love her._ She’s worried, of course, nerves coursing through her bloodstream as if the anticipation of a love requited was what was keeping her alive at this very moment. To Hel with it all. She had already done too much, admitted too much to Eivor now to begin trudging backwards through her own swamp of feelings. She may as well be honest, for it was far too late to be anything but.

“My mighty drengr”. A deep breath, then, as softly as she could muster: “ _Eivor_. Is it not obvious to you by now? Nearly three winters have passed in my company; do you still not know of my feelings for you?”

Eivor blinks, dumbfounded and so uniquely _her_ that it makes Randvi want to pull her in for another kiss. She holds back, however, allowing time for her words to breathe in the rift between them, letting the seconds pass with Eivor’s expression unchanging, mirth forcing her lips upwards until she is smiling in a grin so wide she cannot stop the accompanying giggle from escaping.  
Randvi watches still, her giggles now building upon each other into full fits of unshackled laughter and joy, as Eivor’s face reddens under blessed scrutiny, heat unfurling across her cheeks and traversing her neck. The blonde warrior’s mouth opens and closes, once to start but then again, and it is this image likening her to a gaping fish that has Randvi shaking with humour, all of her anxiety and nervousness and fear melting away. Tears prick at the corner of each eye and Randvi is quick to wipe them away, still laughing, full and melodic, and it is as if her movement is what breaks the strange spell placed on Eivor, for she moves too, grasping at Randvi’s arms in a sort of desperation.  
Randvi schools her features into those of seriousness, or as much as she can in the face of her love so stricken with surprise, and lets her arms be held, and it’s with this calm that finally, _finally_ has Eivor reacting.

“Randvi. I cannot _believe_ that what I have felt for you since the day we met is reciprocated, truly. It is as if I am dreaming, and if so, I would not like to wake, for this is the sweetest dream I could ever be given.” She smiles, her eyes twinkling, and nods as if to prove her point. Randvi positively melts under the gaze of her beloved, wanting the moment to last for all eternity, happiness thrumming under her skin, but Eivor’s smile begins to disappear, and she voices the fear that has long been a part of Randvi’s thoughts.

“But my brother. Sigurd, my Love. I cannot betray his trust in me. As difficult as it will be, we will have to wait until he returns from his venture; until we can be with one another. Surely you understand?”

And Randvi does understand, knows these are facts and that Eivor’s unwavering loyalty to her brother remains steadfast and strong. But she is also _tired_ of not being able to choose something for herself, and for the first time in a long time, she actively _wants_ for something that isn’t in service of her people. She wants to be selfish for once, and she wants something- some _one_ that can be hers and hers alone.  
Eivor looks at Randvi with a sadness in her eyes, as if she is sure of what Randvi is thinking at this moment, and it should surprise Randvi when the drengr mutters a barely-there “I know” to cement her suspicion, but it does not. After all, she has known for a long time that there is something special between herself and Eivor. That there is something solid and real and tangible that is shared, that there is an unspoken bond weaving and tying their fates, threading them together until they are invisibly attached, heart to heart and soul to soul.  


It is because of this undeniable connection she shares with her husband’s sister that she reluctantly nods her head, eyes downcast and the fresh sting of tears prickling behind her eyelids. Randvi feels more than sees a hand tilting her chin back up, until she is once more faced with the eyes of her beloved, anguish swirling around in amongst the blue, the vision of her Eivor blurring with her tears. Eivor strokes at her cheek with the same hand, thumb gently caressing the smooth skin and brushing away the tear that falls, and Randvi lets out a hiccup, attempting to mask her sobs. 

“Look at me, Dear Randvi. I want to see you look at me.” Eivor’s voice is firm, is strong, and is a complete contrast to the way Randvi feels right now, like she is slowly crumbling, her solid build breaking with every sound that she is releasing into the candlelit room. But she sniffs and blinks away more tears, until the face of Eivor is clear again, and the amount of devotion that she sees in moist eyes almost takes her breath away. It is here, on her husband’s bed, with the flickering of a flame to her side the only thing illuminating her lover’s face, that Randvi falls in love with Eivor all over again. There is such a surety within the young woman’s eyes that, even without her speaking, Randvi is compelled to believe that things will be alright. 

She lets out a long, drawn out exhale in order to collect her thoughts, sniffs again, and nods, placing her hand on top of the one cradling her cheek. Looking deeply into her sweetness’ eyes, she says: “I am in love with you, Eivor. And I will wait for as long as I have to for us to be as one.”

“Good”, came the hushed reply, and with it, Eivor leans forwards, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead to Randvi’s. 

“Your wound, Darling—“ Randvi begins, her own eyes closing with the intimate gesture, but Eivor shushes her quietly.

“At this very moment, my Sweet, I can feel no pain.”

They sit together like that for what feels like a lifetime, still and quiet and joined in their love for each other, until Eivor’s breathing becomes ragged, and Randvi pulls back with concern, only to find her mighty warrior falling asleep, weariness becoming more prominent in the way her arms slacken and gain heaviness that has Randvi holding her up. She tuts to herself fondly, before pressing a chaste kiss to Eivor’s forehead and gently easing her back down against the pillows.  
Randvi takes this opportunity to scan Eivor’s wound for any signs of disturbance or tear in the salve, but is relieved to find it closing up nicely, the redness of infection nowhere to be seen despite the trauma that has been inflicted on the skin. Again, she is struck by the sheer _endurance_ of the woman before her, all muscle and sharp edges but with a tenderness to her voice and amorous heart to match wise words. It comes as no shock really then, for Randvi to find herself so head over heels for the one they call Wolf-Kissed. 

Left alone to bask in the quiet once more, she can admit to herself that despite only coming to the realisation of her endearment just this eve, her love for Eivor has long been present in her mannerisms and behaviour towards the woman, beginning as simple teasing and laughing but maturing as time went on, becoming something profound and worthwhile, something substantial and heavy with the weight of feelings. It was only a matter of time, to be sure, before Randvi’s love bubbled to the surface like water bubbled to a boil, and so even though she knew she should feel regret or shame in the notion of vying for the reciprocation of _love_ from her husband’s sister and prized warrior, she could not bring herself to feel anything but contentment and yearning.  


It was true, what she had told Eivor within the past hour- she would wait however long it took to claim the woman as hers. Randvi knew with a certainty that there would be nothing to hold her back from having Eivor as her own, her Love, and so where she had once felt trepidation, she now felt peace.  
It is with these fleeting thoughts that Randvi strips herself of her armour and vestments, before she carefully climbs into the space beside Eivor and reaches out to take the sheet into her fist, pulling it towards her.  
She leans over the sleeping body of her beloved to blow the candle out, before settling back down and turning on her side facing Eivor, gently splaying her left arm outwards to circle the warrior’s abdomen and being mindful not to touch her stomach, before shuffling her body further towards the middle of the bed, until she is finally close enough to be comfortable.  


Eivor’s wound will have to be checked again in the morning, when she has rested enough to test the movement of her limbs- what with the poison paralysing her legs- but Randvi is too tired now to pay the matter much mind.  
In the dead of night, Randvi reminds herself that in the position she’s in, she will have to be patient for Eivor’s full and honest love, but with the same woman sleeping soundly beside her, braided blonde hair beginning to unravel and a ghost of a smile on her lips, she thinks to herself that she would indeed wait forever.


	2. Eivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She is in love with a woman of flame, and she welcomes the feeling with reverence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A change in POV? Let’s go, Lesbians!

**Eivor** swings her right axe with a yell, curved blade slicing through a space between the guard’s shoulder and neck, and even amongst the loud clanging of iron and metal, the jeers and shouts of her clanmates, she can hear the pained cry of the man before her, now falling to his knees in time for her to make the final strike with the axe in her left hand, watching with victory as his head messily tears off his neck with a _rip._

The battle has been drawn out this afternoon, she thinks- what was meant to be an easy raid on a nearby monastery turning to be one of the most difficult instead, and Eivor wipes the sweat from her brow, pausing for only a moment to catch her breath before she kicks the decapitated body in front of her forwards and steps over it, zeroing in on another guard further ahead who looks to be clad from head to toe in shining silver plates of armour.  
Pulse racing and the adrenaline of a fight coursing through her veins, Eivor releases an animalistic snarl as she presses on towards her next target, and she swaps out her axes for her trusted bow, steadying her hands hastily to make rapid-fire shots in quick succession. The blonde finds this to be fun, like a game of cat and mouse- goading her opponent and staying just out of reach as she infuriates the guard with countless arrows, one after the other after the other. Her plan to test the man’s patience works quicker than she wants it to but she hasn’t the time to care, and he turns his head to growl at Eivor, sword and shield at the ready, an arrow lodged firmly in his thigh.  
Barking out a throaty laugh, Eivor sheathes her bow back in its place on her back, and strong hands clasp at each axe once more, fingers tightening and loosening and finding their desired grip on the weapons. She raises both arms, hitting the axes against each other in confidence and in a gesture that seems to say _well come on then, I’m ready,_ and with Odin's fury firing within her ribcage, she begins another battle.

**Poison** is one of Eivor’s least favourite things in the world. It smells rancid, despite looking impressive, she’ll admit, and it takes far too much time and effort to create. The drengr prefers her weapons with flame, a physical manifestation of her power and fierceness. Poison is too tricky; too unmanageable and unpredictable.  
These thoughts are what swirl around in Eivor’s mind as she lowers her head to stare, in shock, at the deep wound in her stomach, green emanating from the torn skin and flesh. _How did that happen?_ She briefly wonders, before her legs give out from underneath her and she falls solid like stone, collapsing in a heap on the ground, the _clang_ of axes landing one on top of the other. She thinks she can hear her name being called with a harrowing urgency to it, but it fades as sheer blinding _pain_ begins to take over. Everything gets so much louder of a sudden, piercing screams filling the air and echoing off of the monastery walls, and Eivor is still aware enough that she realises after a moment or two- the screaming is coming from _her._  


Burning bites away at her throat with all the effort it takes to cry out, and she feels a weight, hot and firm, press upon her stomach, before she lifts her hands to her face and finds blackened blood- the weight in question being her hands, though she didn’t realise she moved them. The energy it takes to lift either limb is so exhausting that she has to drop both arms down again, and they land either side of her on the dirt with a _thump._  
_It is not my time,_ a small voice whispers at the back of Eivor’s mind, and she wills her conscience to pull that single thought forward until it stands out from any other. _It is not my time,_ but she can only repeat this mantra twice more before her vision, once fixed to the open expanse of the sky, begins to blur and darken.  
She will not remember her last thought before she succumbs to her wound, the name usually so sweet in her brain and on her tongue but hollow and tasteless now.  


_Randvi_.

The first thing she can feel as she awakens is fire. An intense burning that is so akin to an open flame that Eivor believes for just a second that she must be dead and in Helheim, her body being seared with her regrets and her shame, pressing into her skin with such depth that it scorches through until it festers, first residing in her stomach and then travelling everywhere else.  
But Eivor knows she was never destined for Hel, and so this must instead be a nightmare- one she wishes to wake from as soon as possible. Her pain intensifies, the spread now reminiscent of lightning and the way it zips rapidly across the sky on a stormy night, and Eivor can feel her eyes twitch, first a way to try and combat the bursts of heat, but then to open.

The moment it takes for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting of the room stretches so long that Eivor feels the slice of panic cut through thoughts of _hot, hot, hot,_ and for even a brief instance she believes wholeheartedly that she is blind.  
She shakes her head from side to side, dazed, finally noting the solitary candle standing vigil on the table to her right as she moves, and is able to relax somewhat, finding solace in the familiar, breathing shallow to lessen the throb of her stomach. Eivor goes to rest her head back down on the pillow beneath her but stills as she notices another fire to her right, this flame different somehow. It begins to move towards her and it is with a start that Eivor realises she is, in fact, far from the monastery she was raiding not so long ago, and instead, appears to be in Ravensthorpe, in the longhouse and in her bed. As if she even needs the proof of her surroundings, the lovely, if a little worried, face of her brother's wife- of Randvi- comes into view and continues moving, until she is at eye-level with her dear friend. 

_Ah,_ Eivor thinks, the voice inside her head pleasant and soft as it usually is when Randvi holds her attention. _Ah, I am home._

Mouth opening, Eivor makes to speak, but is met with the salty skin of her friend’s finger on her lips, and the surprise she sees on the face in front of her must certainly reflect the shock she feels on her own. The first syllable to leave Randvi’s mouth has Eivor’s heart skipping, but when it’s followed by a stuttered, panicked laugh, the muscle constricts. Randvi tells her of her circumstances, of how she came to be back in the village, and the glossy effect that blue eyes take on as she speaks brings a wave of gratitude and longing splashing against Eivor’s chest.

She hears: “I thought you were going to _die_ ”, the quiet “Odín himself had already welcomed you with open arms”, and mentally balks, remembering that just a few moments ago, it was indeed Eivor’s belief that she was dead, but she attempts to disallow any trace of the memory to show on her features otherwise, her breathing turning raspy and shallow as she takes the sight of a pained Randvi in. 

Randvi’s struggle with words comes to a standstill when Eivor hushes her, a threat of something like begging escaping her throat, dry and uneven. She can see the wetness of Randvi’s eyes, the wobbling of her bottom lip, and it shouldn’t invoke any sort of pleasure to see her in such a state as this, but it _does._ The face of her brother’s wife, so broken and open, and for _her-_ it causes a shred of hope to bloom within the cage of her chest.  
It is this same hope that Eivor lifts her hand, jaw clenching with the sprouting of white-hot pain, and paws at the finger still resting on her mouth, separating it from her lips and instead, kissing the softened cream skin nearer Randvi’s wrist. Eivor knows it’s a bold move, but it doesn’t stop her, and it gives her nothing but warmth when she sees her friend’s face brighten with a smile.  


_There you are,_ Eivor thinks to herself, before speaking fully, trying to lighten the heavy mood that has since made itself a home within the walls of the room. She finishes her spiel facing away from Randvi in a show of exaggerated confidence, eyes flitting about and picking up on the fact this room is decidedly _not_ hers- she must be in Randvi’s chambers, in Randvi’s _bed-_ and waits for the usual chiding she is often provided.

But there is nothing but silence to meet her words, and it is this emptiness that grabs at her throat and turns her stomach in apprehension. Perhaps she is talking to herself, Eivor thinks, and perhaps there is no Randvi with her at all. The notion of a non-existent Randvi is so foreign to her by now that she forces her head back around to where her friend was positioned against the bed, and even with evidence of Randvi there and still with Eivor and _there,_ Eivor’s heart lurches.  
Randvi’s face is of steel, jaw set and the muscles of her cheeks straining against stress. There is a coldness in her eyes, frosty blue, and for a split second Eivor is reminded of the way in which her mother used to look at her after she had disobeyed orders so long ago- the way her eyes, too, would darken noticeably as if hailing an approaching hurricane.  
Eivor turns hesitant, her heart furiously pumping beneath her breast, and she can feel blood rushing to her face, eyes widening as though on high alert and bracing for a fight. She knows Randvi is upset at her, knows it by the rage of red spotting her cheeks, but even with it, Eivor can only stare in awe. She is in love with a woman of flame, and she welcomes the feeling with reverence.

What the drengr is less inclined to welcome, however, is the venom that joins Randvi’s next words, each bringing about the pin pricking of nails that appear to embed themselves directly into her skin, ice-cold and unfamiliar. Eivor’s mouth falls open as she hears _idiot_ and _careless_ and _impulsive,_ and those nails triple in size, until she feels as though she cannot _breathe_ with the sudden onset of disappointment she has for herself. Stupidity drops and settles in her gut like a pebble in a pond, as she discerns that the situation she has put herself in is far from dismissive, and that Randvi truly _cares_ for her in a way she daren’t anticipate.  
The word _friend_ is spat out with such ferocity that Eivor’s stomach rolls with guilt, and she’s sure when Randvi turns to walk out of the room- she cannot let this lie. 

“Stay— stay with me, please”, she implores, hands clasped together in a kind of prayer, her voice unable to hide the distress that has lodged itself in her larynx, and she watches as Randvi turns around, her expression incredulous and with a hint of an emotion that Eivor can’t wish to name. Eivor is too proud to apologise under any other circumstance and with any other person, but she is certain Randvi is far too important to her to lose, and so she brushes her pride away, wanting to insert as much of her unbidden love for the redheaded woman as she can, before uttering her apology and:

“Stay with me, please.”

It has been almost three winters Eivor has known of Randvi. Nearly three winters together, supporting each other and building a friendship with a solid foundation of trust and care. Within these years, Eivor has observed Randvi from afar, slowly falling in love with every thought, every action, every conversation had with the hardy woman. Eivor likes to think that by now, nothing about Randvi may surprise her; she knows her habits, her behaviours, her wishes, her dreams- maybe almost as well as she knows her own.  
What Eivor does not know, but what makes itself unavoidably clear, is that she is a _fool,_ and Randvi is still, after all this time, able to stun her into silence. 

Tears discreetly track down her cheeks, one by one, but the wetness is far from what she feels when the object of her desire for the past couple of winters decisively steps towards her, grabbing her face with both hands and bringing her mouth closer in a kiss so blistering and _passionate_ that Eivor believes yet again that she must be dead- only this time, she is in Valhalla, her entire being bathing in jubilation and rapture at her love reciprocated, the thoughts of _oh, this is what she tastes like_ and _at last_ swimming freely behind closed eyelids.  
Her brain can only process Randvi’s supple lips on hers for an instant before the reality that she is kissing her brother’s _wife_ slaps her with enough force that her head jumps back, lips still wet with the spit of the other woman.

Only a few seconds pass in white noise, Eivor’s eyes wide as she stares at the woman opposite her, noting the beautiful flush of full cheeks, her friend’s breathing laboured and eyes clear and bright.  
Her own breathing is not anything but _wrecked,_ and Eivor takes a beat to calm her racing heart, licking her lips to find she can now taste Randvi’s sweetness on her tongue, honeyed, saccharine and so _Randvi_ that the thrill of it makes the blonde’s head spin.  
But she cannot revel in her blissful lightheadedness for too long, the wanting to discover the reasoning behind what just happened increasing, the hunger to strip every thought in her tablemaiden’s perfect head apart with a painful meticulousness driving her impulse forwards, enough for her to ask:

“Randvi, what was _that?_ ”

The woman in question looks mildly embarrassed, letting the hands cradling Eivor’s face drop to her lap as she sits on the bed, and for half a second Eivor sees a young girl take her place, waiting on bated breath and with eyes focused anywhere but _her_ as if she were due a scolding from a despondent parent. Randvi looks shy and fearful and so unlike herself that Eivor’s muscles fervently tense, and she has to mentally restrain herself from reaching out to soothe the wrinkled skin between her dearest’s brows. The next few words that leave Randvi’s mouth are barely audible, so much so that Eivor has to crane her neck to hear them, but they are so unforeseen that the Wolf-Kissed simply cannot _help_ the laughter that flees her. 

For _of course_ she knows it was a kiss. Her brain is a current mess of _what’s_ and _why’s_ and everything in between, yes, but she is not so concussed as to not be able to recognise when she has been kissed- and certainly not when the one who has kissed her is the very same person she has had occupying her private musings for so long now.  
Eivor winces and blinks as soon as the sound leaves her throat, her stomach spasming uncomfortably, and takes her bottom lip between her teeth in order to regain some semblance of control over her pain. Very briefly as they reopen, her eyes flit towards Randvi’s face, and she almost does a double-take when she can spot the blooming of a scarlet blush across her cheekbones. She sees blue next, and it is with a jolt of satisfaction that Eivor notices Randvi’s pupils are enlarged and hungry. _Interesting_ is what passes through the trafficked thoughts in the drengr’s mind, but she must center herself.

She begins with: “I know it was a kiss”, stopping short if only to titter, but ends with the admittance of her curiosity; perhaps an idea she accidentally reveals but could not go back upon, because she _is_ curious- dangerously so. She wants to know just what Randvi was thinking, wants to peel back the layers of her mind and just _indulge_ in every notion, every feeling, every _thing_ she had to offer. Was it possible for Randvi to feel the very same stirrings of love Eivor had felt for her for so long? Was it possible for Randvi’s heart, so gloriously strong and large, so giving and sincere, to beat for her? It was obvious to Eivor that her true love was sitting not an arm’s length away from her, but even the smallest possibility of her affections being returned in equal measure has her head whirling and her heart pounding.  
Eivor sits herself up as she speaks, with a practised self-care that came with having to heal and tend to her own wounds for the past seventeen winters, and continues to stare at her friend unabashedly and expectantly, awaiting a response.

Randvi, Gods bless her, is now a being of rose, and she appears to be considering her words carefully, seems to be ruminating on them with a slowness that drives Eivor crazy. But Eivor is patient, as she has been for most of her time in Randvi’s company, and so she remains still and suspenseful, all the while finding the tilt of her crush’s head to be one of the _cutest_ things she has seen in all of her years. 

“My mighty drengr”, Randvi starts, her voice turning taunting and musical, and Eivor feels she is about to combust with adoration.

“... Do you still not know of my feelings for you?”

Eivor is struck _dumb,_ mouth falling open in amazement and eyes blinking with a rapidness that may make her look even more stupid if possible, but she cannot seem to stop herself. Her brain has surely short-circuited, her thoughts crashing into one another so spontaneously that she feels, for the _third_ time this eve, that she _must_ be dying. The vein on her forehead pulsates with such strength she feels it will pop and her head will burst from her shoulders, as the raging inferno of mortification races from her toes- she can feel them now, because _of course-_ and upwards to the base of her skull, and soon enough she feels like she has been doused in firelight and flame.  


Randvi, meanwhile, lovely and _sweet_ Randvi, is shaking with laughter, loud cackles of glee, as if watching the mental deterioration of the muscled and impassive warrior in front of her is the funniest thing in the world, and Eivor, even as flabbergasted as she is, finds it impossible to be anything other than smitten.  
Eivor’s mouth closes but opens again, as though it is the physical embodiment of her heart attempting to refrain itself from stuttering and _stopping,_ and this movement just makes Randvi laugh harder, until she is swiping at her eyes, fingers coming away wet with her tears. 

_Gods,_ Eivor cannot believe her own naivety, her own idiocy, but she must- she _must_ tell Randvi of her feelings, honestly and immediately, and it is this idea that has her reaching for her love’s- her _love’s?_ \- arms, bringing both closer to her own chest and hoping against all odds that Randvi cannot feel her heart crying with relief below the skin and bone.  
It takes a short while for Randvi to compose herself, straightening her back and masking her humour as best she can, but even with small shakes alerting Eivor that the joking is far from over, she does well to accomplish her mission, and it is with this composure that Eivor finds herself speaking, every hint of love and respect and absolution for her favourite woman spilling out of her like mead from a flagon, drops of it at first and then all at once. 

“... It is as if I am dreaming, and if so, I would not like to wake, for this is the sweetest dream I could ever be given”, Eivor breathes, truthful and gratified, and she can feel her cheeks dimple with the rising of her smile; but as quickly as it appears, it vanishes, and Eivor has to only think _Sigurd_ in order to sully her delight and sober her merriment. 

She voices her disdain to a somber Randvi, and she can see the moment her love _gets it,_ the way her shoulders fall in resignation and rejection, her blue eyes dimming with understanding and affliction.  
“I know”, is murmured aloud, and Randvi’s eyes widen imperceptibly, as though Eivor has read her thoughts and agreed with them in some way. But the truth of it is that Eivor _does_ know what Randvi is thinking because she is thinking the same, her love and longing so ardent and tangible that it threatens to overwhelm her. She knows how _unfair_ it all feels, wanting for something- someone- so badly that it is all there is to think about. But she also has resigned herself to the belief that no matter what, she would be loyal to her brother; that she would support him and fight for him and _with_ him and allow him happiness, allow him _Randvi,_ at the cost of her own heart’s call.

Randvi nods her head a single time, dropping it to hide her cries, and Eivor cannot bear it any more, has to do something to placate her Love’s worry and grief. She holds out her hand and gently taps Randvi’s chin once, before resting her forefinger on its base and slowly lifting it upwards, until they are eye-to-eye, the torment in Randvi’s so torturous that Eivor wants to go back on her words and throw her honour aside, brother be damned.  
But she cannot.  
Even when she brushes away a hot and mournful tear on Randvi’s cheek with her thumb, she cannot bring herself to further betray Sigurd, and it kills her.

Heart now breaking with the regret and guilt she feels, Eivor wills herself to remain strong, and tells Randvi to look at her, a silent plea accompanying her words. _Look at me please,_ Eivor thinks, _and regard my love for you. I am yours and will be yours forever more. Trust in me._  
The pitch of her voice, solid and firm, leaves no room for arguments, and so it is only to Eivor’s relief that she sees Randvi muster her courage, take a deep breath, and meet the hand on her face with her own. 

“I am in love with you, Eivor”, Randvi sniffs, and Eivor knows it not to be possible but she can _hear_ the echo of her sweetheart’s confession in the quiet room, can feel the thrum of her pulse gain speed to resemble the flap of a raven’s wings, can see Randvi’s eyes twinkle with admiration as she bares her soul, and can only think that this would be how she’d most like to die- with her lover in front of her, whispering secrets of affection and promise into a candlelit room, heart’s falling in step with each other, the beating of blood and the melding of skin bonding them as one.  
Randvi says she will wait and utters it with such finality that Eivor is inclined to believe her, an answer of: “good” all she can say before the impulse to be closer to her love takes control, and she leans forward to connect their foreheads together. 

Distantly, Eivor can hear Randvi worry over her wound, but she tells her she cannot feel a thing- a half-truth in this instance because she can, she can feel _everything-_ but what she feels is not pain, not in the slightest. 

The closing of Eivor’s eyes and the feel of Randvi’s skin touching hers has her thoughts drifting with peace, and she gives herself the time she needs to reflect upon every emotion she has felt this eve, each spiralling and intricately wrapping around one another so tightly that she doesn’t know where one ends and another begins.  
She feels so many things at once, good and bad; her love for Randvi, her duty to Sigurd, her respect for Randvi, her fealty to Sigurd, Gods, her _worship_ for Randvi, her dedication to Sigurd- and the way every feeling is interchangeable only serves to exhaust her further. For she _is_ exhausted now, can feel the weariness make landfall on her bones, and she doesn’t want to fall asleep this instant, doesn’t want to let the drowsiness seeping into her head win, not when her Dear Randvi is _touching_ her and sharing her space and breathing _with_ her, in time to the rhythm of their bond; but her body and her mind are not on the same page, it seems, and the more time spent in the soothing embrace of her Love, the faster her consciousness escapes her, until Eivor can feel her thoughts unfurling and unravelling.

The final thought she has before she dreams of fiery red hair and sky blue eyes, is one she has had every night for the past two-and-a-bit winters, and is this:

_Randvi._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I headcanon Eivor to be the Biggest Gay Mess™️. Am I wrong? I don’t think so.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on Tumblr: @sweet-tangy-balls-jessica


End file.
